


Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder

by sheila_amour



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, M/M, and illya is really gay, bc im a sucker for those fics, napoleon is pretty, this is a troupe-y mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 13:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15632067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheila_amour/pseuds/sheila_amour
Summary: Napoleon Solo is a very handsome man. Illya is well aware of this.aka 5 times illya realizes Napoleon is beautiful and the one time he tells him.





	Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

> this is an awful title i know but just remember that the working title this was under in my docs was 'illya's top 5 'im gay' moments' so 
> 
> tbh this isn't the best thing i've ever written but here it is. i hope u enjoy!

1\. Napoleon Solo is a handsome man. Everyone in the world knows that; it's not something he hides. Illya knows that too, he knew the first time he saw those photos in Napoleon's KGB file: square jaw, blue eyes, disarming smile, and the darkest black hair Illya had ever seen. Handsome.

Illya remembers thinking he was almost more handsome in person the first time he met him. Something about him was captivating; his carefree stance made him look relaxed and he had a smile, turning up to a smirk at the corner of the mouth, that showed one thing to Illya- Napoleon Solo was handsome and he knew it.

Flaunted it, even. Anytime a mission called for seduction Napoleon was chosen almost without thought. It was natural; who could resist Napoleon Solo?

That's what Illya thinks, anyway, as he watches him out of the corner of his eye. They're in a ballroom with people crowded wall to wall, surrounded by things so shiny and expensive Illya feels nervous. One wrong move and he could shatter the place.

But Napoleon, Napoleon is right in his element tonight, dressed in a tuxedo, hair slicked back just right. Illya remembers stepping out of his bedroom earlier that night to find Napoleon waiting for him in that tux and how he stopped, stared, and felt silly in his own suit, like an impostor getting caught because he knew a tuxedo would never look the same on him as it did on Napoleon Solo.

“Whatcha looking at, Peril?” Napoleon had smirked, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand.

Illya had reddened. “Nothing. Let's go.” Napoleon didn't say another word, shrugged, and threw back the rest of his drink.

Now he's dancing in the crowd, approaching the target slowly. Tonight Napoleon is seducing Marcello Bonetti, an arms dealer secretly funneling weapons and money into fascist groups in southern Italy.

(“I can't believe I have to fuck a fascist,” Napoleon had grumbled earlier as the trio hatched up the plan, passing papers and photos in between themselves.

Gaby gave him a sarcastic ‘oh poor you’ pout in mock sympathy as Napoleon picked up a photo and grimaced.

“Look at him, he's not even a handsome fascist. He's at least 60. Oh, fuck me.”

“That's our plan,” Gaby said. Napoleon glared at her. Gaby smirked. )

Illya watches as Napoleon bumps into Marcello, and even though he knows better, he could've sworn it was a real accident on Napoleon’s part. He watches Marcello give Napoleon the once-over and take his arm, steering him towards the tables on the outskirts of the dance floor. He pulls out the chair for him, a move Illya thinks is awfully decent for a man who's file boast of crimes that include (but are not limited to): rape, torture, murder, extortion, and violent assault.

Marcello whispers something in Napoleon's ear and he leaves the table. Illya’s eyes follow him through the crowd all the way to the bar, where Marcello buts through the people gathered around to speak with the bartender. Then Illya looks back at Napoleon and stops. That Napoleon Solo grin is gone from his mouth. He's tired. He's tired and Illya is certain he hates this mission. He can tell from the frown wrinkling his forehead, the way his eyes look darker, his hand fiddling with the ring on his right index finger. He's staring at Marcello with a gaze that is cold as ice.

As if he can sense Illya watching him, Napoleon looks over and catches his eye, catching him staring for the second time today. But this time Napoleon’s face melts into a smile, and Illya knows Marcello is going to be putty in Napoleon's hands tonight because that warm smile is probably the most beautiful thing Illya has seen in his life.

-/-/-/-

It had only taken Napoleon fifteen minutes to get Marcello to take him to his apartment, ushering him out the door with his hand on the small of Napoleon’s back. Illya had seen it all from his corner of the ballroom, clenching his fists.

Gaby had found him minutes later, her hair wild and out of breath from dancing, but a smile playing on her lips.

“You didn't keep yourself cooped up here all night, did you?” She coos at him, elbowing him rather sharply in the ribs, but Illya can't help but think her sweet for it. He’ll always have a soft spot for his little Chop Shop Girl.

She leans into his arm and even with their height difference he can smell the alcohol on her. 

“You know he’ll be okay, right?” She looks up at him. He's impressed that her mascara hasn't moved an inch.

“Of course.”

“It's okay to worry, you know.” She tells him and Illya squirms under her gaze. He doesn't like the way she's looking at him, her eyes are searching his and he doesn't know what she expects to find there.

“I am not worried.”

“Illya, it’s natural to worry about the people you love.” Her words are slow, deliberate. She's trying to tell him something. But his ears start ringing when she says the word _love_.

“Gaby, you are drunk. You do not know what you are saying.” He says this carefully, trying to control the shaking in his hands.

“Illya-”

“We have to go, Gaby. We have to get into his safe while he's…” Illya pauses, pursing his lips, “... while he's occupied.” It comes out sounding bitter. He hadn't wanted that.

Gaby gives him an affectionate roll of her eyes “Oh, Illya.”

 

2\. Two missions later they’re in Paris, in an expensive hotel with a view overlooking the city. It might be the nicest place they've stayed at and Napoleon and Gaby are ecstatic. They arrive at night with the whole town lit up and the city seems to glow.

Gaby drops her bags at the door, rushing over to throw open the French doors to the balcony. “Illya! Napoleon! You guys have to see this!”

Illya and Napoleon turn to look at each other, exchanging a knowing smile.

“Coming!” Napoleon shouts, dropping his own bag and placing it next to Gaby’s.

Gaby’s grin is enormous when they step onto the balcony. “I've always wanted to go to Paris,” she sighs, a soft wistfulness in her voice. The wind blows her hair lightly and a smile lights up her face better than any light in all of Paris. Illya drapes his arm over her with a gentle smile on his lips.

“It is beautiful,” he admits. He turns to look at Napoleon, ready to tell him about how the last time he was in Paris he got himself banned permanently from a local bar, but the words get stuck in his throat. Napoleon's looking at him with a frown on his face, his eyes turning dark and icy. For a second, it reminds him of the way he had looked at Marcello in the ballroom. He feels his stomach twist.

“I think I will go to bed. It is late.” He takes his arm off Gaby and walks back inside without saying another word to either of them.

-/-/-/-

The second night in Paris has Illya and Napoleon alone in the apartment while Gaby heads out to meet the mark at a restaurant across the street. Illya is watching from the window with a pair of binoculars while Napoleon fixes himself a drink. He knows he shouldn't but he can't help but worry. This is the first time Gaby has been the one to seduce a mark, and she's doing it alone, which doesn't reassure Illya at all. He's not sure what he would do if anything happened to his little Chop Shop Girl.

A tap on his shoulder has him turning around, where he sees Napoleon offering him a glass of whiskey with an outstretched hand. Illya takes it gladly, throwing it back, swallowing it all in three gulps. He feels the fire in the back of his throat, its heat growing in his stomach. He turns around in time to see Gaby run her hand over the target’s mouth, pretending to wipe away something on his lips- a tip she’d picked up from Napoleon, no doubt.

“Relax, Peril. She's going to be alright.” Napoleon says to him, picking up his own drink.

“That man is dangerous,” Illya says. He taps his fingers on his thigh.

“Well, yes, Peril. He is.” Napoleon notices how Illya tenses, “But he's no worse than anyone else we’ve come across,” he adds, softening his tone. He places a hand on his shoulder and says, “It’s Gaby. She's a tough one.”

“I know,” Illya says in a rough voice, “I still do not like it.”

“We don't have to like everything we’re assigned to, Peril.” He finishes off his drink and laughs a little “Believe me, I would know.”

Despite himself, the corners of Illya’s lips turn up. “You mean like fucking a fascist.”

Napoleon groans. “Oh god, don't even remind me of that. Worst lay of my fucking _life_ , Peril. Did you and Gaby really have to take that long to get the damn papers?”

Illya laughs a little under his breath. “Always so dramatic, Cowboy.”

“Though,” Napoleon says, filling up his second glass, “speaking of you and Gaby, how are things going in that department?”

Illya cocks his head to the side. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Oh come on, Illya, I know you’re dating, I'm not stupid. When did it happen?”

Illya nearly drops his binoculars. “What?”

“You and Gaby.” Napoleon sounds almost irritated with him. “How long have you been together?”

“Gaby- she and I are not together.” Napoleon is really, really off the mark he thinks. Must not have read his file close enough, or maybe the CIA forgot to put in the word _homosexual_.

“But you want to be.” Napoleon's voice is calm, level.

“No.” Illya shakes his head “She is a friend. A good friend, but nothing more.”

“You’re sure about that?” Napoleon is leaning on the wall next to the window, eyeing Illya with a strange look in his eyes.

“Yes, Cowboy, I am.” He makes sure to look Napoleon in the eye so he knows he's serious.

“Well, alright then,” Napoleon shrugs. “Now give me those binoculars I want to see how Gaby’s doing.” He snatches them out of Illya’s hands and nods approvingly. “She's doing exactly what I told her. She's a smart one, that Gaby.”

Illya breaks out into a grin at that. _So he does care after all_ , he thinks.

-/-/-/-

The next morning Illya wakes up to a slight headache and the smell of something frying in the kitchen. The mission had been a roaring success, the best they’d had in weeks. After Gaby convinced the target to come up to her hotel Illya and Napoleon had been waiting by the door, ready to apprehend him. He managed to get one good crack at Illya’s forehead before going down without any more of a fight. Illya could feel the bruise growing on his temple, but felt satisfied knowing it was the only injury from the mission.

Walking into the kitchen, he's greeted with a sight that makes him stop in his tracks. Napoleon is in the kitchen, cooking. He's wearing a pair of boxer briefs, black socks, and an unbuttoned dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is uncombed, a stray curled piece falling down the front of his forehead. He's whistling while he's cooking and good _god_ he looks beautiful.

As of on cue, Napoleon turns to look at him and breaks out into a grin that leaves Illya a little bit short for breath.

“Hey, Peril. How's the head feeling?”

“The head? Oh, it is fine.”

Napoleon puts down the spatula and studies him “Looks like it might bruise. Come here, let me have a look at this.”

“Is fine, cowboy,” he mutters, but against his better judgment, his feet find themselves moving towards him.

Napoleon gently touches his forehead, Illya winches and steps back.

“Sorry. It looks like it's gonna bruise. You could put ice on it; it's in the fridge.”

Illya nods at him, leaving Napoleon to his cooking. He takes a handful of ice from the freezer, wraps it in a rag and presses it to his forehead. Putting his weight against the counter he takes in again the sight of Napoleon cooking. He looks happy and young and Illya isn't exactly sure how that makes him feel.

“It's crepe suzette,” Napoleon breaks Illya’s train of thought.

“Hm?”

“Crepe suzette. It's a French dessert. I thought when in France, you know.” He gives him a soft smile, “and don't worry, I made eggs too.” He nods over at a pan, piled high with the scrambled eggs Napoleon knows are Illya’s favorite.

He eyes them hungrily and Napoleon swats his hand with the spatula “No eating before breakfast starts.”

“I was just looking,” Illya grumbles. He knows he's acting childish but he can't help it- Napoleon's cooking is just that good.

“Now do you want to help me set this on fire?”

“What are we setting on fire?” Gaby is standing in the living room, still dressed in pajamas, sporting messy hair and a sleepy smile. She looks tired but happy. Illya can't help but smile back.

“I'm making crepe suzette for breakfast.” Napoleon grins “you have to set it on fire to cook it properly.”

Gaby is the one chosen to do the honors, after her insisting that Napoleon will burn the place down and Napoleon's rebuttal that he does, in fact, know how to cook thank you very much, Gaby.

They all watch in childlike wonder as the dish burns in front of them, blue flames swathing the top, the scent of oranges wafting through the air. Illya turns over to look at Napoleon as the fire burns out, that warm smile still on his face. He wonders for a moment what his life has become; how he ended up standing next to the most handsome man in the world, who is wearing nothing but boxers and an old button-down, cooking a French breakfast and for the first time in a long time he doesn't miss home at all. Gaby’s voice comes to his mind, the way she says ‘ _love_ ’ comes echoing in his ears. He pushes it out and grabs himself a plate of eggs.

 

3\. The next mission is to a hole-in-the-wall town outside Las Vegas, the next a run-down warehouse in Portugal. Then it's finally back to the New York U.N.C.L.E. base and their small apartments. Everyone is at Napoleon's that night, lured by the promise of a new Portuguese dessert he somehow managed to get from a baker in between getting shot at and running for his life.

Gaby opens the door when Illya knocks, revealing the smell of sweet cream and the sound of an Italian love song crooning on the record player.

“Illya!” she beams up at him and kisses his cheek. “You're here just in time to help me get this shit off the record player and hear something good,” she adds, pulling out a Monkees record she has tucked under her arm: a band she knows Napoleon can't stand.

Illya laughs a little to himself, shutting the door behind him as he steps into the apartment, a bottle of vodka in his left hand.

“Gaby I swear to god if you touch that record I will kick you out of here without an ounce of dessert.” Napoleon steps out of the kitchen, wagging a wooden spoon at her.

Gaby clucks her tongue at him, taking off the record and returning it to its sleeve. She gives Illya a wink before she puts on the Monkees record.

“Yes, baby!” She shouts as the first notes sound out through the apartment, dancing in the middle of the living room. Napoleon groans from the kitchen and Gaby responds by cranking up the volume.

“If the landlord comes up this one is on you,” Illya says to Napoleon as he puts the bottle of vodka down on the kitchen counter.

Napoleon beams up at him, “If they're not used to it by now I'm not sure I know what to tell them.” He picks up the bottle of vodka, raising an eyebrow, “American vodka, huh?”

“Not as good as Russian. But all there is downtown.”

“Well, don't let Gaby have too much of it or we’ll be dancing all night long, whether we like it or not.”

Illya laughs and shakes his head. “You need help with the vegetables?”

Napoleon nods at him. “Take the knife over there and start on the carrots, alright?”

This kitchen routine started three months ago in a safe house in Brazil when Napoleon had been preparing some kind of traditional soup for dinner. Illya had been watching him, admiring the way he hummed jazz to himself as he worked, that stray curl of his falling in front of his forehead.

“You know,” he'd said, “if you're gonna be here you might as well make yourself useful. Take that knife there and cut up the onions, will you?” And ever since then Illya had helped Napoleon prepare dinner. It was such an easy habit to fall into it should've made Illya worry but he didn't. It felt right; working next to Napoleon was just as easy in the kitchen as it was out in the field.

-/-/-/-

Gaby, as always, had too much vodka to drink, and after she played the same Monkees record for the third time in a row Illya knew that she was going to end up sleeping at Napoleon’s that night. It happened so many times it was almost tradition. Napoleon never seemed to mind, either.

When he saw Gaby drifting off in his armchair he’d simply shook his head and sighed. “Guess I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.”

He carries her to the bedroom with an affectionate smile on his face, chuckling under his breath. Illya watches from the doorway as he sets her down on the bed and gently wipes a strand of hair away from her face. Then, bending down, he places a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Good night, Gaby,” he says.

“You want to go finish off that bottle?” He asks softly, turning to Illya, “There’s still a little left.”

Illya nods and follows Napoleon back into the living room. He sits down in the big armchair by the coffee table, where his chess game is currently halfway through. As he thinks about his next move, a glass of vodka is placed next to him on the table. He gives a grunt as a thank you without looking up from the game.

An hour or so passes by and he's finished up two sets of games. He looks up to tell Napoleon it's about time for him to head home, but the words catch in his throat. The warm light of the lamp is hitting Napoleon just right, it's glow softening his edges and stringing lines of light through his black hair. He's dressed casually for the evening, sporting a brown sweater and tan slacks, his feet barefoot, one leg draped over the other as he fingers his way through a novel. It's a Russian novel, a poetry collection that Illya had let him borrow from his own bookshelf. He looks comfortable and at ease, and Illya wants to be nowhere else in the world but this living room, watching Napoleon read his favorite poems. The stray curl was back, tumbling in the middle of his forehead, and Ilya wants to reach out and touch it. Pull it back away from his face, and like Napoleon had done to Gaby, place a soft kiss on his forehead.

Now Illya had no idea where _that_ idea came from. Too much vodka, probably. He stands up quickly, clenching his fists

“I have to go now.” He says to Napoleon curtly, catching only the confused frown on Napoleon's face before he shuts the door.

 

4\. Only four days later and they’re back in the field again. Illya had tried to make himself busy last week, choosing to finish the latest American novel he'd bought in New York instead of going drinking or dancing with Gaby and Napoleon. The American was starting to make him feel uncomfortable; something about his presence was making Illya jumpy. When Napoleon looked at him there was a soft ache in his chest, and he didn't want to assess the reasons for this.

But now Napoleon is crouched down beside him in a Tokyo alleyway, breathing heavily but still wearing that smirk of his.

“You ready for this?” He turns to Illya with a cocky smile and Illya nods, tightening the grip on his gun.

“Da.”

“Alright, let’s go then.”

Napoleon jumps out from the alleyway and takes off sprinting, weaving his way through the crowds. Ilya is close behind him, following the back of his blue suit.

Illya sees them first, both dressed in black. One is coming from the left, the other from the right. He sprints faster towards Napoleon, desperately hoping to catch him in time, calling his name out as a warning, “Napoleon!”

 _Too late_ , he thinks as he hears the shot ring out.

-/-/-/-

“Unbelievable,” Gaby curses, “fucking _unbelievable_.”

Napoleon throws his head back and laughs, “They’ll have to be quicker next time if they want to catch me.”

“Do not make me worry like that again, Cowboy,” Illya says from the corner of the room, arms folded in disapproval.

“Oh come on Peril, I've had worse and we both know it.”

The bullet had barely missed Napoleon; he'd thrown himself to the ground just as Illya had called out his name. There were nasty scratches on his forehead, knees, and elbows, but all of them were better than a bullet wound. Gaby had fussed over him, slapping on ointments and band-aids, until Napoleon had told her if she put one more bandage on him he would snap her beloved records in half. She'd pouted, but Napoleon had kissed her forehead and poured her a drink, and then she was content, sitting on the couch sipping her rum and coke.

Illya, however, was not so easily pleased. He didn't like Napoleon taking unnecessary risks, didn't like that he could never completely protect him in the field. It was irrational to get upset over things he couldn't control; he knew this, the KGB taught him this, trained him relentlessly to accept that anything he loved could be ripped from him within a single heartbeat. But still, knowing Napoleon could be here one second and shot through the heart the next wasn't something that sat well with him. Sometimes he'd have nightmares about it, watching Napoleon get shot over and over again, blood dripping from his mouth, clutching Illya’s shirt as he watched the life fade from his eyes. He'd wake up with sweaty limbs stuck to the sheets and trembling hands, panting and panicked.

“Do not joke, Cowboy.” Napoleon had opened his mouth to say something, but Illya cut him off with a cold glare.

“I am serious. I cannot lose you.” He looked Napoleon in the eye, and amazingly the American’s jaw clamped shut. He nodded once, and then averted his gaze.

“Gaby,” he said a few moments later, “put on that Edith Piaf record you bought me in France.”

She looked up, her feet draped over the edge of the couch, a cigarette resting in between her fingers, her concern for Napoleon apparently vanished. “Go do it yourself, you've got two legs.”

“I'm injured, remember.”

She sighs at him and mutters something in German that Illya does not think is very polite. But before she sits back down she ruffles Napoleon’s hair with a smile.

The record starts and Napoleon closes his eyes, tapping his fingers on his thighs to the slow beat of the rhythm. Illya is suddenly envious of him; he's a mess with a bandaged face, his shirt wrinkled and loosely buttoned, grime smeared all over his pants and he's still absolutely beautiful. Even with the left eyebrow crusted in blood, he looks perfect. Illya’s own words come floating up to him, _I can’t lose you_ , and in that moment it hits him how true those words are. He can't lose Napoleon, he'd sooner lose a hand or a foot or even his father’s watch. He wants always Napoleon, standing by his side in a mission, cutting up vegetables in the kitchen as he hums one of Gaby’s songs he pretends to hate, reading a book next to him as he plays chess.

This need is overwhelming to Illya; it takes him over at once, like a wave crashing down upon him. He feels it first in his fingers, as he always does. It's the start of a tremble, then a twitch of the wrist and he knows he has to get this under control soon. Feelings like this, they can't last long. They have to go away. It's no good to have feelings like these.

-/-/-/-

The next morning they're on the airplane back from Tokyo, everyone exhausted because they'd stayed up too late drinking, and the 10-hour flight seems like a gift. Gaby is the first to doze off, her hair out of her ponytail and spread all over her small travel pillow. She instructed the boys not to wake her up for anything until it was time for the in-flight dinner. Illya didn't think that was going to be a problem, he could already feel the weight in his bones and he figured he'd last about ten minutes before he finally fell asleep.

He leans back in his seat to relax, both hands lying on the armrests. Suddenly, he feels the gentle weight of Napoleon’s head on his shoulder and his left arm crossing over Illya’s. He can feel his soft and steady breaths. Illya feels himself go rigid, frozen in place, terrified to move and accidentally wake Napoleon. He stays there for several seconds until he can calm himself down, his head touching the back of the seat, Napoleon sleeping softly on his shoulder. He closes his eyes for a second and feels peaceful and warm. He opens them again to take one last glance at Napoleon, smiles and closes his eyes. Gaby was right, he thought, _this might be love_.

That idea should worry him. But it doesn't. He could worry when they landed, but right now all he wants is to fall asleep to the gentle rhythm of Napoleon's breathing.

 

5\. After the mission in Tokyo Gaby and Napoleon decide it’s time for a vacation. Lucky for them, Waverly doesn’t have anything for them to take care of when they get back. Even Illya can admit that after months of what feels like back to back missions it would be good to go home and relax.

The problem is that Napoleon and Gaby have a very different definition of the word ‘relax’. They brainstorm ideas in Napoleon’s apartment that increasingly start sounding more dangerous than their actual job. Illya has to put his foot down when Gaby suggests they could practice jumping out of airplanes.

In the end, they go sailing. Illya’s not particularly fond of boats but Gaby had been so ecstatic to go he couldn’t say no. Napoleon had been telling her stories of his time as a thief when he used to go sailing on the French Riviera and Gaby was smitten instantly. She’d been behind the wheel of many different cars and on one occasion a bus, but she’d never had the opportunity to sail a boat before. Napoleon is certain he can teach her. Illya is less certain but he’s willing to go along anyway.

They can’t make it to the French Riviera so they settle for northern Maine. Gaby drives them up in a little car she rented. The drive is a couple hours but it’s a beautiful drive. They stop halfway up at a little seaside town and Illya eats the best bowl of clam chowder he’s had in his lifetime. He wolfs it down in minutes and orders a second one as quickly as he can. Napoleon laughs and shakes his head.

“Remember I’m cooking us a peach cobbler once we get to the inn so make sure to save some room.” Illya manages a grunt before he’s digging into the second bowl, causing another bout of laughter from Napoleon.

-/-/-/-

They left in the early morning so they arrive at the inn in the late afternoon. Immediately after checking in Napoleon heads to the market to get groceries for dinner that night and a picnic he wants to do tomorrow. This leaves Gaby and Illya alone in their rooms to unpack and get settled in.

Napoleon was the one to pick out the place, and it shows. The place is perfect. It’s not expensive, as Illya was originally thinking, but instead small and hidden away. It’s a little bed and breakfast with nautical decoration that walks the line between tacky and tasteful. The rooms smell like ocean salt and clean sheets and offer a view of the Atlantic herself. In the quiet moments when Illya puts his suitcase on his bed he can hear the waves rolling in the distance. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He imagines how it will be later tonight when Napoleon is in the other bed next to him. With Napoleon nearby and the sea outside Illya can’t imagine a better night. For a moment he lets himself indulge in the idea of them together in the same bed, Napoleon lying on his chest as an ocean breeze blows in from the open window.

“Illya are you still unpacking?” Gaby’s voice comes in and the fantasy ends.

She’s leaning against the doorway in a blue summer dress Napoleon had picked out for her. For once her hair is down and gathers in curls around her collarbone. She looks really beautiful.

“I’m finished now,” he says, though he has barely cracked the suitcase open. “Let’s go get a drink while we wait for cowboy.”

-/-/-/-/

They get out to the shipyard early the next day. Napoleon did all the arrangements before they left and when they arrive a little white boat named _Lady Esmeralda_ is waiting for them. Gaby is practically jumping up and down in her new boat shoes and pawns the picnic basket off to Illya as Napoleon helps her onto the boat. Illya is on last and he takes a seat off to the side, watching the sea through the soft morning fog, getting lost in his thoughts as Napoleon starts showing Gaby everything she needs to know before they take off. It’s a beautiful morning. It’s cool but not cold, the cries of seagulls come in from the shore, and he forgot how much he loved the smell of the ocean.

They’re off not much later, cutting roughly through the waves. Gaby is behind the wheel, laughing as the wind blows her ponytail everywhere, Napoleon standing steady behind her, ready to help her when she needs it. Illya won’t lie; it’s a little rough at first. The water is a little choppy and Gaby has a hard time navigating at first. However, she turns out to be a pro. Twenty minutes later she’s pushing Napoleon off her.

“I’ve got it from here, Solo.” She’s still grinning and her sweater is flapping in the wind. “ Told you I was gonna be a natural.”

Napoleon sits next to Illya and laughs. He throws his head back and _god_ does Illya love that sound. He’s captivated by the way the wind plays with Napoleon’s hair, tossing his curls about his head like a dark halo. Illya notices his eyes are the same color as the ocean, the same deep blue. They’re not quite as blue as the oversize sweater he’s wearing, the one he got specifically for the trip, such a change from his perfectly tailored suits. Illya is in love with the way it hangs a little bit over his hands and the way he pushes the sleeves up to keep them from falling down. The wind has flushed his cheeks a soft pink as well as the tips of his ears. Illya wishes he would’ve brought his camera.

Gaby sails them not too far from shore, just enough so that the shoreline is hazy in the distance. Napoleon breaks open the picnic basket revealing three sandwiches, a container full of fruit, and another full of different types of cheese. Wrapped up carefully are three leftover pieces of cobbler. Illya’s mouth starts watering just looking at it.

“Eat light; I’m making you clam chowder tonight. Let’s see who's is better; mine or Massachusetts’.” Napoleon tells him, giving him a wink.

And Illya didn’t think he could love him more.

 

+1 Oklahoma is hot in summer. Illya is dying in the heat and sick of the stench of cow pies wafting through the air. When he was a boy in the Soviet Union he would hear of stories of how America was a gross and terrible place, but he never believed it. However, when Napoleon told him that the average temperature for their stay would be up in the 100s he thought that they might be onto something.

“How you holdin’ up there, Peril?” Napoleon is waiting for him, leaning against a beat up pick up truck. He's wearing a simple button down and jeans and genuine cowboy boots. The sight of his cowboy, dressed like a cowboy, might've made him laugh if the heat hadn't increased his irritability tenfold.

“America always like this?” He asks, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Napoleon laughs, “Just the Midwest.”

“I think I will stick to New York.”

“A wise decision. Now hop on in, Mr. Baker is waiting for us.”

-/-/-/-/

The ranch is no better. It's muggy hot and the smell is enough to make Illya want to puke. There are no trees in sight to offer any shade, only dry grass stretching out to the horizon. They're sent to fix the fence first and while Illya is not one to complain about hard labor the heat is killing him and he's nicked his thumb twice on the barbed wire. He's not sure how he's going to get through the rest of this mission.

“I thought cowboys were supposed to fight crime and beat bad guys,” he grunts, fixing a large post that's fallen over.

“No, unfortunately it's more like hard labor. Rounding up cattle and scooping up shit and all of that.” Napoleon replies, wiping sweat from his brow with a dirty hand, “At least, that's what I think. I never did get very far in school.”

Illya shakes his head. “American cowboy. Another bourgeoisie myth.” he gives Napoleon a smile so he knows he's joking. Napoleon even laughs a little at the joke, a small highlight to a horrible day.

-/-/-/-/

Before they leave the ranch they're given two beers and a “Sleep tight boys, see you in the morning” from Mr. Baker. Napoleon has Illya open them up the second they get to the truck.

“I'm dying of thirst here Illya, come on. There's no way I'm gonna make it back to the safe house without a drink.” Napoleon had said when Illya had argued (though rather weakly) that they should save them for when they get back.

The bottles were cool to the touch and sweating with condescension. And it had, after all, been a long day. Illya gives in easily.

They sit in the truck and talk and drink beer and it's surprisingly nice. They both look awful and probably smell worse, but the beer feels so good they don't even notice. Napoleon has angled himself towards to Illya, taking up most of the space with his legs stretched out, one on the seat the other on the ground. The sun is setting outside the truck and Illya doesn't think they're going to leave until the sky goes dark. This doesn't bother him. He would love a shower but right now Napoleon is laughing, light and warm, and he wills the sun to never set.

Earlier, Illya would've blamed it on the alcohol. But he knows now that he has no excuse. So when he looks over at Napoleon laughing, pressed up against the window with sweat sticking to the curls of his hair and thinks _beautiful_ he knows it's because he's in love. He's so beautiful and Illya loves him and really, really wants to kiss him even with the smell of sweat and beer that's clinging to him. It’s a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea, actually. The mission could be more than a month long and fucking this up right now could make it feel a hell of a lot longer. He puts his near-empty beer on the dash.

 _To hell with it_ , he thinks as he leans in and kisses him. It’s a short kiss and Illya is pulling away before Napoleon has time to kiss him back. His hand reaches up for that stray curl of his and he runs his fingers through it as he pushes it off Napoleon’s forehead. His thumb then lazily traces Napoleon’s cheekbones and Illya is so close he can smell the beer on his breath.

“Beautiful,” he says.

Napoleon is staring at him like he’s crazy. “I smell like sweat and cow shit,” he says slowly, “and I'm absolutely certain there’s dirt stuck to my face right now.”

There is. Illya just smiles at him “I know.” he says.

Napoleon is still looking at him like Illya might have actually lost his mind and Illya is starting to worry he’s made a mistake. But then Napoleon laughs and now he is the one kissing Illya. He kisses him again and again and again until he finally breaks away.

“Gaby’s probably wondering where the hell we are,” Napoleon says as he leans into Illya, who has wrapped an arm around him. Napoleon lays his head on his shoulder. Illya places a kiss on the top of his head.

“I’m still mad her cover is Mrs. Baker’s long lost sister. At least she gets to sit inside all day,” Napoleon complains, brushing the dirt off his pants.

“Sunset is nice though,” Illya says and it is; the clouds in the sky have caught a pinkish-red hue.

“Yeah, it is.” Napoleon agrees. They stay there in the truck and watch the colors shift across the clouds in the sky. They don’t leave until the sun goes down.

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry to everyone who lives in oklahoma. im sure its not that bad.


End file.
